


Favors the Brave

by Tierfal



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ling has not yet grown out of climbing walls to windows or believing in the miraculous.</p><p>[Spoilers for Brotherhood 'verse.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Favors the Brave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unorthodoxCreativity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/gifts).



> For my [Kyri](http://kyrianne.tumblr.com), who writes incredible things. ♥
> 
> If you see any egregious typos, please do tell me! I managed to read through this thing a grand total of once. :x

It’s been too long.  He had almost begun to forget how _light_ it all is—how free, how breathless, how _exhilarating_.  He has spent too long in heavy, flowing robes; taking measured, stately steps; speaking careful, clever words.  He has neglected the part of himself that yearns to fly, and with his wings stretched—with his heart beating and his hands scraped and the dance of the universe about him, with gravity at his back and liberty ahead—

It is good to be the emperor, but sometimes it is better to be _Ling_.

This is a very charming apartment building, too; he had also forgotten how quaint the architecture is in this odd little country.  They do so love their blocks and bricks, and their drainpipes and their webs of thickening ivy; they do so cherish all their latchless windows and their fire escapes.

Ling quite likes them, too.

And he doesn’t know what he’s expecting—that’s the real joy of it; politicians slither and twine around your fingers in the hopes of striking swiftly at the vein, but after a while you learn to see them moving through the grass.  This is a different sort of unpredictability entirely.  This is an open-ended breath that might end in a question mark, and might just lead to… more.

His heart is singing with the seethe of his blood, and the shadows are for hiding, but they cannot hold him back.  He presses his fingertips into the tiny gap beneath the window sash, wedges them in, levers upward—and it starts to rise; it rattles _oh_ -so softly; he sets the toes of his right foot on the sill and slides it slowly higher, and he looks—

“Good evening,” Alphonse Elric says from the couch.

The back of his head is towards the window, and in the gentle light of the lamp on the end table, his hair is gleaming like gold silk, quivering _just_ slightly as he breathes.  He is reading the newspaper, or pretending to read the newspaper, and there is a sleek black cat perched on the arm of the couch, which flicks its ears towards Ling and then looks back to Alphonse like it’s waiting for a sign.

Ling was waiting, too.  It turned out to be despicable.  So he stopped waiting, and he came.

“Hello,” he says.  “It’s a lovely night for a diplomatic embassage.”

“Where in the world are your retainers?” Alphonse asks.  He still hasn’t turned around—which is really a pity, because Ling must look _stunning_ perched in the window, materializing from the night.

“Xing, presumably,” Ling says.  “There are a few bodyguards at the embassy, who I believe are under the honest impression that I am safely bestowed in my well-barricaded chambers.  Lan Fan is a few blocks out still; I had an unfair head-start.”

Alphonse turns just halfway, so that he’s in profile, and Ling’s heart stutters into a very strange flight formation wherein it dips and swoops and knocks back and forth several times against different portions of his ribcage.

Ed used to send pictures every two weeks during his precious brother’s convalescence, and Ling held to them tightly—the last link to this strange world; the last clumsily-labeled, left-handed-ink-smeared tie to everyone who fought and died for and with him regardless of his birthright, not _because_ of it.  The last remembrance of the era—of Greed, of forest light dappled over Ed’s too-brightly-grinning bravado; tokens of proof that the lives he was briefly part of trundle on without him.

But Ed, bless his stupid, spongy heart, fell back into the military, and the pictures stopped.  Emperor Yao supposed it was likely for the best, but Ling— _Ling’s_ stupid, springy heart was _broken_.

And then there was a letter—long and lyrical and rambling and sweet and dangerously dry-humored—from Alphonse.

To say that Ling hurls himself into these things would be to understate matters gravely.

To say that he likely made a fool of himself in every possible manner would be an insult to fools.

But Alphonse… just kept writing _back_.

And it was more wonderful and more cathartic and more _reviving_ than Ling knew how to describe, to have a secret place to pour the words, to know someone was listening.  To know that someone _cared_ —because Alphonse did care, or he would have given up after the first or the second or the nineteenth sheaf of pages strewn with an overflow of emotions, with rantings and triumphs and rages and quiet fears and more than a touch of loneliness.

He just kept writing back.

And he wrote the most beautiful things.

And he looks like a vision of a young Western god, upright, sunkissed, goldspun, curious and arch, with such a _fierce_ intelligence in his olive-speckled eyes but such a soft amusement to the slow curve of his smile—

And Ling thinks, _Even Greed might glut on you; Ling Yao alone could worship you forever._

“Not that it isn’t nice to see you,” Alphonse says, and it’s not the photos’ fault they didn’t do him justice; no flat image could ever hope to hold him; “but what are you doing here?”

“With any luck,” Ling says, slipping down to land cat-paw-silent on the carpet, “you.”

Alphonse looks at him for a long moment, every muscle still.  His face is parchment blank—there’s a story underneath the pale contours, but no quantity of wishing will drag it forth until it’s drawn to the surface by the touch of ink.

Ling wants very badly to touch him.  It is a language he errs in rarely; he could prove his sincerity with just a fingertip, and every doubt would hush and die at the mere insinuation of his mouth—

“I’m not interested in a fling,” Alphonse says quietly.

Ling’s heart is bobbing in his throat like a buoy in a whirlpool.

“Neither am I,” he says.  “Despite the fact that ‘fling’ is a fascinating word, and it has my name in it.”

Alphonse smiles faintly.  “I don’t imagine you’ll be staying long.”

“It’s interesting,” Ling says.  The black cat leaps down from the couch and saunters closer to examine him.  “You’re very different from your brother in many ways, but the two of you are so alike sometimes—in this, for instance.  In truthfully believing that you do not deserve good things, and in being unable to imagine that they could simply _happen_.”

The smile widens but doesn’t reach Alphonse’s much-too-striking eyes.  “In our personal philosophy, the concept of exchange is a generalization based on a scientific law.”

“I’m an emperor,” Ling says.  “I read laws, and I make laws, and I strike them down.”  He bows low enough that the cat startles backwards.  “And I will make this good thing happen, if you will trust me long enough to let me try.”

Alphonse smiles with his eyes this time, and it’s not just standing up again so fast that makes Ling lightheaded.

“All right, then,” Alphonse says.  “Try.”

And Ling is over the back of the couch and kissing him, and he tastes like sunlight and the sky.  The cat makes a deeply distressed sort of _mew_ noise, which Ling ignores in favor of running the tip of his tongue along the roof of Alphonse’s mouth until he has to swallow a series of beautiful little giggles.

Then someone clears their throat.

“Excuse me,” Ling says.  It is dizzying to be this close; his hands have affixed themselves quite firmly to Alphonse, one to his shoulder, one in his hair.  “May we resume this after I have murdered my best and most faithful friend?”

“Good luck with that,” Alphonse says.

“He’ll need it,” Lan Fan says.

“Do you know,” Ling says, half-turning, “I am feeling extremely fortunate tonight.”

Alphonse grins, and Lan Fan rolls her eyes.


End file.
